The Changeling
by samchandler1986
Summary: At some point, Debbie and Ruth need to talk.


"Okay," says Debbie. "So, we were thinking, something like _this_." Her arm encircles Ruth's neck and she drives them both down towards the mat, landing with a satisfying, rattling thump. "That's a DDT right?"

"Holy shit," says Tom, ignoring her, "are you okay?"

"I'm… I'm fine," says Ruth, rolling upright. "Hit my head a little, I guess."

"How many times have you guys practiced that move?" asks Kurt.

"I'm… not sure. F-five or six times, maybe."

"Eleven," corrects Ruth, not looking at her.

"And you hit your head like that every time?"

Ruth nods. "But I'm fine though," she says, with a fleeting smile for Debbie. "I'm fine. It doesn't hurt for long."

"You're lucky you haven't broken your neck! Don't get me wrong, DDT's a great move. Strong. But you've _got_ to work on that landing." Tom shakes his head at Kurt, who shrugs back. A _what-can-you-do_ jerk of the shoulder, before they start to take the move apart for them; teach them how to do it without lightly concussing Ruth every time.

And Debbie is angry.

So angry she can barely hear their words over the roar in her ears. Tight with rage, her body brittle with it. Every thumping land on the mat hurts, as she resists when she should bend; solid when she should be soft.

Ruth can feel it. Debbie can _see_ her swallow words of concern, as she winces again and again; bruises building up on bruises. Like a hideous game of chicken. _Say it_ , she thinks, as she bangs down onto the mat. Say _it, damn it._

"Debbie… are you okay?"

It should feel like a victory, but it doesn't. "No," she says, low and tight. "I'm not."

"We can stop for now… if it's not working there's no sense in—"

"Like we stopped when I was bouncing your fucking skull off the mat?" she snaps.

"Uh," Ruth manages, mouth flapping like a fish. God, she hates her like this. This _, this_ is the stranger that fucked her husband. This cringing, hand-wringing coward. This isn't Ruth. Not the Ruth she knew, who was funny and clever and kind. Kooky, perhaps; the kind of person who strange things happen to, but who wove them into stories that used to make her sides ache. "I'm sorry," the changeling-Ruth tries, the wrong words at the wrong time.

"Yeah, Ruth, I know you're sorry," she finds herself snapping. Tom and Kurt exchange some kind of knowing look in her peripheral vision, and the river of rage breaches the levees. "We're done for today."

She doesn't look back as she stalks away from the ring; gets into her car and just… _drives_. Away.

Except it doesn't work like that. It never does. Life is not a movie. The feeling of speeding away from her problems, theme music playing in her head, lasts about five minutes. The she's just plain old Debbie, feeling wretched and far too hot in her car's failing air conditioning; stuck in the fucking traffic _._

 _Fuck._

* * *

Debbie is the star, Sam once said, and she has a baby. So Debbie has a room all to herself at the _Dusty Spur_. It sounds like a perk but in moments like this it's more like a prison. The others might have to put up with snoring room-mates, odd personal habits and issues of hygiene, but at least there's always someone to _talk_ to. Debbie sits on her bed, staring at the wall and biting the inside of her mouth.

She could talk to Cherry, maybe. Something holds her back from knocking on that door though. The thought of her reaction to the fact Debbie's been repeatedly concussing one of her wrestlers for the last three days, probably. She snorts at her own joke. There's Melrose, who will probably share her annoyance at Ruth's cringing cowardice. Cracking her own skull rather than just _say:_ stop, you're hurting me.

Debbie sighs. As much as she might like to, there's no way to paint Ruth as the villain in this.

She stands, sits again. There's a not-small-part of her that wants to drive to the nearest liquor store and buy a large bottle of tequila, but Randy will be back in a few hours and she's damned if she'll give Mark the satisfaction of her being the less-than-exemplary parent. Perhaps she can go for a run, instead. Pounding pavement might drain some of this bilious rage away.

She laces her trainers listlessly, picks up her purse instead to find nickels for the drinks machine outside. Predictably it is empty, so she lopes around to the car park. Bottles from the gas station after all, but with fizzing sugar in place of alcohol—

She stops.

Sam Sylvia is sitting on the bonnet of her car, squinting in the sunlight as he lights a cigarette.

She folds her arm, her jaw working back and forth as she considers her words. "What," she says, "are you doing?" It's not the most original line, she's prepared to admit.

He takes a drag before he even looks at her, breathing out smoke as he rakes her angry. "What's it look like?" he says. Petulant in the face of petulance. "Waiting for you."

"Why?"

He flicks ash from the cigarette. "Ruth called me."

Of course she did, Debbie doesn't say; biting down on the angry words in her mouth. She's not blind, she knows they've struck up some kind of friendship in the past few weeks. Pollyanna to his perennial cynic. A role Ruth used to play for her, she supposes, which maybe explains the pang of jealousy.

"What did she say?"

"That she was worried about you."

"Oh-ho," she laughs without humour. "I'm fine. _She's_ the one that's been letting me smash her face against the ring rather than say—"

"Yeah, and you see that's a problem," he snaps, temper frayed. "If you can't communicate you can't fight together. You're my best wrestlers, I can't have you breaking each other's necks because you're both too stubborn to admit when something's not working."

"I'm not—"

"Oh, spare me the self-righteousness. It's getting old."

She takes a steadying breath. "What do you want me to say? This isn't my problem." He raises his eyebrows, invitation to continue, and she finds the words are suddenly spilling out. "It's her problem. It's _always_ been her problem. It's why she fucking … fucked Mark." She snatches the cigarette out of his hand and takes a deep drag. "She won't just tell me when I'm… when I'm hurting her."

And that's it, she realises. The nub of the problem. Quick to see the worst in everything, she's unintentionally run down everything Ruth has ever believed in; worked for. If everything in Debbie's life is so awful, how much worse is Ruth? That deep well of resentment she spoke of didn't spring from nothing.

"Mmm," says Sam, as she blinks in the light of her new dawn. "Speaking as someone else with a… tendency to overlook the emotional needs of others… you might need to make space for her to communicate that. And ask."

She gives him a look. "Are you _quoting_? Who said that? Your therapist?"

"My ex-wife's."

She bites her lip. "Advice worked out well for you, huh?"

He shrugs. "I never said I _followed_ it. Look, Debbie, there are two ways this can go. Either you start talking to each other, or you stop working together. It's really that simple."

"I don't—" she says, too quickly. "Ahem." She clears the sudden lump in her throat. "I want to keep working with Ruth. We're the best match, like you said."

"Then you better go talk to her." A beat of silence. He rolls his eyes. "Do I need to go _fetch_ her for you?"

"No, no," she manages. "No more than you need to be such a cranky ass about everything."

He smiles, as she finishes his cigarette. "You're welcome."


End file.
